


Burnin' Love

by SuperOreoMan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Firefighter John, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, accidental fires, lack of fires altogether, on purpose fires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 16:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2857085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperOreoMan/pseuds/SuperOreoMan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, Three Times Sherlock Set Fire to the Flat, and the One Time He Didn't</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burnin' Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jinglebell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinglebell/gifts).



> A (belated) Christmas present for the wonderful Jinglebell!
> 
> As usual, not beta'd or britpicked, so all mistakes are my own!

 

1.

The first time was an accident.

The fire had come from Sherlock's flat, and if having his experiment unintentionally burst into flame wasn't embarrassing enough, he couldn't even get his sorry arse out of the building by himself. In his alarm, Sherlock stood upright so fast—forgetting for a moment about the giant goggles he was donning—that in his efforts to grab something to tamp out the flames, he'd knocked his skull on a kitchen cupboard and gone down faster than a....well, than a man who'd inadvertently cracked his skull into a nice solid cupboard.

His vision swam as he sank to his knees, though he fortunately had the foresight to angle his descent away from the flames, and managed to land out of direct danger. But he was slipping, the throbbing in his skull painfully present, and even with the room illuminated with the bright flickers of fire, Sherlock's vision was steadily darkening.

By the time Sherlock groaned into consciousness, the fire had grown, having found more flammable chemicals to fuel its path across the table, and was still steadily spreading, while the room was rapidly filling with thick, dark, probably noxious smoke. Sherlock was lucky to have recovered before smoke inhalation kept him unconscious. The entirety of the table was ablaze now, being fed by the old wood and chemicals splayed across it. Sherlock cursed under his breath and scrambled into an upright position, clutching his head when he went dizzy. He backed against the cupboard and wrenched the goggles off—which turned out to be a tremendously terrible mistake, because _damn,_ now there was smoke in his eyes and how the hell was there so much _smoke_ in here?

He must have been out longer than he initially thought, because now that he rose trepidatiously to his feet, he could see on the other side of the table, where the cabinets there were also burning. As well as the door, which was unfortunate, because that was his nearest exit. Which meant that he'd have to take the other door, further away and around the corner. Looking out to the sitting room, the entire flat was cloudy with dark smoke. It was then that Sherlock started coughing, choking on ash and fumes, as though seeing all that smoke triggered the realization of the itching need to cough that had been present all along.

He took a few staggering steps forward, and it was right about then that the kitchen table gave way, the burning legs unable to hold its weight, and it came crashing down right into Sherlock's path. He scrambled backward again, which sent him falling on his arse. Only this time, his strength left him when he tried to get back up.

It was the smoke, all the damn smoke, he couldn't think straight, he couldn't _breathe_....

Smoke inhalation had gotten the better of him, but Sherlock vaguely heard a loud noise from the other room. He tried to lift his head, to peer around the wreckage of his table, to cry for help or clamber to his feet, but he was dizzy and the smoke was thick, and he felt so heavy...

There were heavy footsteps, clomping boots, and maybe a voice—it was difficult to know, Sherlock was fading again. A voice, definitely a voice, and then he had just enough coherence to recognize that he was being lifted, up and up, into someone's arms. Strong arms, as they cradled him with apparent ease. He breathed shallowly, clutching against the heavy fabric of a coat. He caught a flash of yellow and something reflective when he blinked his eyes open once, but the smoke was too much and it burned and he had to close them again.

 _Firefighter_ , his lazy mind informed him, somehow making connections even under duress. Although, really, when a building's on fire, a fireman really is the most likely person to encounter. Still, whoever had him was murmuring things at him—or maybe he was shouting, it was hard to tell at this point—but whatever it was, Sherlock felt safe and secure and comfortable, and the man's—yes, judging by stature, definitely a man—voice was soothing and calming....

He clung to the man's coat with the little strength he had left. Sherlock was jostled as he shifted so he was being carried bridal-style, and he dared blink his eyes open again. Heavily clothed arms tightened around him, and Sherlock could feel the firefighter hunch protectively over him while tongues of fire licked at his uniform. Another shift in their position, and he looked up just in time to see a wide boot kick through his door, which crumbled into ashes to free them from the heat and the flames and lead them stumbling into the cool and comparatively dark stairwell.

The journey down the stairs and out the door was a jerky but solid one, and Sherlock never worried for a second that the fireman might drop him or trip. He greeted the rush of fresher air with a halfhearted sneeze, which triggered a spasming coughing fit during which Sherlock felt himself rushed toward an ambulance.

He was set down, though comforting hands stayed with him, rubbing his arm gently, and something was thrust over his nose and mouth. Sherlock reflexively turned away from it, but soft cooing from overhead soothed him into holding still. Fresh, clean oxygen came pouring out, and Sherlock's entire demeanor changed as he crushed the respirator closer and sucked in the new air greedily.

When his sputtering had died down to a subtle wheezing, Sherlock's burning eyes blinked open. There was a worried firefighter hunched over him. An _attractive_ worried firefighter, his mind noted dully. His blue eyes were shining with concern, his sandy hair in disarray after his helmet had been tugged away. He turned away for a few moments to bark out some orders at his comrades, something about checking the premises and doing checks or whatnot, but his attention was quickly back on Sherlock.

Sherlock's mind had cleared with the help of fresh air, and by the time he was breathing almost regularly, his thoughts were nearly back to their usual sharpness as he took in the man in front of him, doing his usual deductions with only a slight delay. _Military, ranked Captain, recently returned, medical discharge, recently joined the department...._

Sherlock tried to sit up, pulled away the mask and started to speak, but the blonde just pushed the respirator back into place with a smile.

"Hey, hey, shh," he hushed with soft words, smoothing an ungloved hand over Sherlock's hair. It was a comforting gesture, and Sherlock found himself relaxing into it...right up until the man's fingers grazed the painful knot that had put him out.

Sherlock cringed and hissed in pain, eyes squeezing shut, and with a muttered apology the other pulled away. The hand shifted to carefully hold him by the jaw, and the fireman fumbled a penlight from his pocket and started shining it in his eyes, checking Sherlock's pupils.

"Medical training as well, Captain?" Sherlock asked with interest, not having caught that with his first round of deductions. His voice was muffled and resounded a bit to his own ears by the respirator the blonde was holding over his nose and mouth. Not that Sherlock minded—the man was attractive, and it gave him an excuse to touch him.

The fireman paused, looking at Sherlock strangely for a long moment.

"Yeah. Had to, part of the job description," he finally replied gruffly.

Sherlock shook his head, tried to move the respirator from his face but was quickly reprimanded by the fireman's hand batting his away. Sherlock huffed. "That's more than standard medical training for firefighters. Your hands are more practiced. I'd say a surgeon, based on the calluses on your hands, and even the way you held the light. You were too quick with concern for my wellbeing rather than putting out the flames."

"The others are perfectly capable of doing that, it's their jo—" he started to argue with narrowed eyes.

"And the paramedics on scene were more than capable of doing _their_ jobs," Sherlock interrupted, this time managing to successfully pull down the respirator indignantly...before the fireman grabbed it again and kept it held to his face, this time.

"Less talking, more breathing," he insisted, frowning.

He took his leave then—ignoring Sherlock's protests as he was handed off to a generic paramedic—and joined his team in venturing into the charred flat while Sherlock was whisked away to the hospital.

 

 

 

2.

The second time was a bit less of an accident.

It was nearly four months later, the flat had been repaired with—ugh, he was loathe to admit it—with _Mycroft's_ assistance, and Sherlock was bored. Utterly, completely _bored_ , not a single thing to do.

The fire itself was an accident, started by another wayward experiment, but it would have been easily snuffed out with the extinguisher he now kept in the kitchen. However, while reaching for the handle, Sherlock paused.

And began...fanning the flames a bit.

Just a bit.

The fire department had shown up rather quickly that first time, after the initial call—and timing their arrival would be good to know. For emergency purposes.

So....he let it burn.

He called right away, and set the timer. The telltale sirens were quickly roaring into earshot, and the kitchen table was just beginning to creak under the fire's duress—which was fine because Sherlock had never been a fan of the replacement table anyway—when he heard someone come crashing through his door.

A figure, broad with equipment and heavy clothing, rounded the corner. Sherlock was surprised—and perhaps a bit pleased—to find that it was the same blonde fellow from last time, only just recognizable under his heavy jacket and clunky helmet. Not that Sherlock hadn't been hoping for him anyway.

The fire wasn't too bad, encompassing just the table this time, and the firefighter was easily dousing the flames in mere seconds. Then he was escorting Sherlock out the door, and Sherlock felt as though he was missing out on something by having to walk rather than being carried by the man, and the whole thing seemed a bit rushed and Sherlock didn't even have time to enjoy seeing him again.

He was guided with a hand at the small of his back, ushered to the cluster of people—including an absurdly fretful Mrs. Hudson—and then the hand was drawn away. Sherlock tried to hide his disappointment, because now was when the attractive fireman was going to leave again when suddenly—

"Hey," came his voice, drawing Sherlock's attention immediately. They were standing off to the side, a few meters away from the others, and he was looking at Sherlock skeptically, thoughtfully. "Last time. You called me Captain."

Sherlock blinked. Of course he had—that's what the man was. "Well, that's your rank, isn't it?"

 _Not in this line of work,_ was clear in the way he frowned, unsettled, at Sherlock. Captain wasn't even a rank in the department. "Yeah. But how the hell did you—"

"I observed," Sherlock answered simply. The fireman's expression must have been expectant, because with a huff Sherlock began to explain. "You're in the military. Or were—recent discharge, I imagine, with the wounded shoulder. Yes, I noticed that while you were carrying me, the way you favored it. Your tan, however, I didn't notice until later when you'd taken your helmet off; saw it around your neck. Almost thought it was smudged of ash at first—silly of me, really, with my extensive knowledge of the stuff—" He said this proudly, as though it was something that should make sense to ordinary people. "—but once I was more clearheaded it was clearly a tan. But not from a vacation, no, it left a very particular set of tan lines, not the kind one would acquire on holiday. That, accompanied by the dog tags tucked away under your coat, made it quite obvious that I was dealing with a military man."

"...'Dealing with'...." was the only thing the blonde could think to say for a moment.

"Yes, quite. Anyway, the way you barked out orders was indicative of someone of a higher ranking. Not terribly high—it was a bit more friendly, less formal than someone too high up the ranks—you're used to dealing with men you're somewhat familiar with, and with whom you're on friendly terms. Captain or Major, then." Sherlock pointed to the fireman's coat next, frowning. "Of course, the pins were helpful, once I noticed them, after I could focus again. Definitely a Captain, then."

"You got...." The blonde shook his head, trying to make sense of this crazed yet brilliant civilian. "You got _all that_ from _one_ encounter?"

"Yes."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes." A pause, where the firefighter just stared at him blankly. "Consulting detective," Sherlock prompted, as though that should mean something to the other.

"Riiiight...."

"Oi! Watson!" one of the other firefighters called, and when the blonde looked over his shoulder, Sherlock filed away that particular tidbit of information.

The blonde—an ex-army doctor, Captain Watson, apparently—herded Sherlock toward the paramedics again, even though there was no reason for him to need any assistance on that front, and was off with his coworkers before Sherlock had the chance to say another word.

 

 

 

3.

The third time was definitely on purpose.

And Mycroft was definitely getting tired of paying to repair the flat's fire damage. Not to mention Mrs. Hudson.... Which was why Sherlock had informed his meddlesome brother beforehand—who was none too pleased about his plans for the evening but too busy to do anything about it—and made sure Mrs. Hudson would be out for the weekend.

Then he set the fire. And he waited.

He didn't call right away this time—let it build up a bit first. Too long, apparently, because by the time the sirens were blaring down the street, Sherlock was choking on smoke. His legs were trembling, so rather than wait to fall, Sherlock slid down into a sitting position, back propped up against the wall. He covered his mouth with a towel—not that he was unfamiliar with breathing in smoke, but this kind lacked the pleasant tinge of nicotine—and closed his eyes against the smoke, patiently waiting for the fire crew to come to his aid. And hopefully that Captain Watson.

The crash of someone bursting through the door, perhaps a sound Sherlock was becoming far too familiar with, registered with him, but he didn't respond. It was childish perhaps, but he wanted the blonde to carry him out again. It was probably the only way he would end up in his arms, and though a bit underhanded, the idea of being cradled close to his chest made Sherlock feel strangely warm and illogically cheery.

He could both hear and feel the heavy tromp of boots as they neared him, and a muttered string of expletives brought to Sherlock the wonderfully familiar voice of Captain Watson. Then thick strong arms were circling his torso, dragging him to his feet, and Sherlock nearly squawked as he was tossed rather unceremoniously over the man's shoulder, with _a firm hand on his arse._ Presumably to keep him steady, but that didn't change the way he jolted at the contact. Decidedly not unpleasant, even given the circumstances.

He stiffened at the unexpectedly rough treatment of being thrown over someone's shoulder—and the unintentional feeling up he'd just received—and braced his hands against Watson's back to keep him from dangling off his shoulder uncomfortably. Not _at_ _all_ the way Sherlock had been hoping to be carried...though he wasn't entirely opposed to this way, either. Could be fun, he imagined, in different circumstan—

That thought was nipped in the bud by the man underneath him jerking a bit in response to Sherlock's unexpected reaction. He'd looked passed out to the firefighter, after all.

"You were just unconscious," he spoke over his shoulder, voice rough through his helmet and mask. Sherlock was just barely able to make out the accusation in his tone.

"I was faking," he responded simply as they started down the stairs in a practiced gait.

" _Why?_ " Sherlock could imagine the way his blue eyes would narrow with irritated confusion.

"I was hoping you'd attempt resuscitation," Sherlock answered with a nonchalant shrug. Unfortunate it hadn't gotten that far, really.

They had just burst out the front door and made it several paces when Watson's steps faltered. "You were _what?_ "

"I didn't catch your name last time," Sherlock prompted, ignoring the question. He propped himself up to look back at the blond from over his shoulder. "Or the time before that."

The man nearly paused to gape at him. "I'm carrying you out of a burning building," he reminded him with an incredulous expression, speaking slowly as though Sherlock were mentally compromised.

"Yes. I am aware." _Very_ aware. Especially of the gloved hand still snugly splayed across his arse. Not that he was complaining.

"And...you're asking me about my name."

"Yes."

A pause. Then: "This building is on _fire_."

" _Quite_ the observation, Captain," Sherlock replied caustically, eyes rolling. "Lucky me that you managed to come to that conclusion all on your own, without the help of a call _telling you the building is on fire_."

"You're asking for my name as I'm saving your sorry arse from a gruesome death by flames," he scoffed, more a disbelieving comment this time than a question. " _Again._ "

There must have been a predetermined distance he was supposed to walk victims away from the building before he could set him down, because it very much felt like he'd like to let Sherlock drop inelegantly to the ground, yet he was still lugging him over his shoulder toward the waiting paramedics.

"That's precisely _why_ I'm asking you. This is the third time you know," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yeah, _I know_."

Sherlock shrugged. "I thought we might get acquainted."

The fireman scoffed again. "I should hope not."

"And why not?" Sherlock demanded indignantly, unintentionally giving him a pouting little thump on his back.

"Because every time I see you, _your flat is on fire_."

"Well it's not _always_ on fire, if that's what you're worried about," he rejoined with a sniff.

It was then that the firefighter chose to deposit him on the ground, eliciting another surprised and rather embarrassing yelp from Sherlock as his arse was grabbed firmly with two hands to slide him to his feet. The blonde looked fairly pleased with himself as he pulled off his helmet, and Sherlock dusted himself off with a disgruntled harrumph, trying to ignore the way it left the other's sandy hair appealingly tousled.

"So can I get a first name, Captain Watson?" he inquired after shooing away a paramedic and assuring her he was _fine_ , no need for a breathing mask this time.

The man's brow drew into a furrow. "Why?"

"Like I said, to get acquainted."

He considered this, arms crossed. "Do you plan on setting your kitchen on fire again?"

The way his eyebrow quirked upward had Sherlock fighting a blush, because he looked like he knew this time had been on purpose and even _why_ he'd done it and _god_ was that an embarrassing thing to be caught having done.

"I...didn't have anything scheduled in, no," Sherlock answered tentatively.

He was expecting some sort of adverse reaction. A scolding, least, for letting his flat catch fire, _again._ Or even accusations of arson. Instead, the blonde just chuckled.

"Well, it seems you've already _deduced_ the second half of my name. Surely that's enough?"

"Do I need to put in a formal request for the first half?" Sherlock challenged.

There was a brief moment of silence. Then, he laughed.

"John."

 

 

 

4.

The fourth time there was no fire at all. Not even the semblance of one.

"There's no fire," Sherlock announced over the wail of sirens as the familiar firefighter stalked over to where he was perched on the doorstep to 221B. Which was very much lacking in the _on fire_ department.

"Yeah, I'm aware," was the first, unimpressed thing to come from John's mouth when he arrived. "There _should_ be."

"But there isn't."

John paused to study him for a moment. The sirens went off after they realized there was no real emergency, the the disgruntled fire crew was preparing to do the mandatory check of the building that was required for even false alarms.

"Then why'd you call us?" John sighed.

"I was hoping to see you."

After looking around as though expecting to find someone standing behind him, John stared at Sherlock incredulously. " _Me?_ "

"Yes."

" _Why?_ "

A brief pause as Sherlock gathered his bearings.

"I was hoping to ask you to dinner."

John was silent for a long moment. "I'm on duty," he replied slowly, in that same tone that suggested he thought Sherlock was a bit off his rocker.

"I like you, John," Sherlock started, shaking his head. He'd thought about what he wanted to say, but didn't want it to come out as a canned speech. "You're spectacular. You're brave—that's clear—and sensible, and witty and handsome and I know it wasn't the most orthodox of meetings, but I've....enjoyed the times I've gotten to see you. And...I thought we could see each other some more. Without any fire involved," he added hastily, wringing his hands nervously. "And...get to know each other more? Outside, you know, you rescuing me from buildings while I'm in varying degrees of consciousness... Maybe for dinner. I know a place. Do you like Italian?"

The ensuing silence was so heavy it was nearly smothering. Sherlock waited anxiously, the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles highlighting and shadowing his sharp features in stark contrast, as well as the apprehension clearly written across his face. Which was growing increasingly vulnerable under John's continued silence.

He quickly backtracked, realizing what a foolish idea this had been. Absolutely stupid and inappropriate.... Of course John wouldn't want to—Sherlock was just another in a sea of people he'd rescued from burning buildings.

But then, lo and behold, someone somewhere had mercy on him, because John finally answered, and Sherlock flinched away, expecting rejection until—

"...I'm off at eight."

 

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> Second chapter tbd. I'm kinda thinkin it would be a little less T rated ifyouknowwhatimean and called something along the lines of 'Three times Sherlock involved parts of John's uniform in sex, and the one time John got fed up.' (...and strapped him to the bed with a fire hose? XD )


End file.
